


Healing Wounds

by MichelleDV



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ichabbie First Kiss, Mild Hurt/Comfort, ichabbie - Freeform, songsty (soft and angsty)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MichelleDV/pseuds/MichelleDV
Relationships: Ichabod Crane & Abbie Mills, Ichabod Crane/Abbie Mills
Kudos: 35





	Healing Wounds

"Is it still bleeding?"  
  
Ichabod slowly pulled the gauze pad she'd given him from the glove box away from his head and eyed the pool of red it'd soaked up.   
  
"Significantly less now, but yes." He pressed the gauze back against the deep gash along his hairline and sucked air in through his teeth at the sharp pain.  
  
Abbie glanced in her rearview mirror, half expecting to see the demon who'd nearly bested them following, regardless of the fact they'd sent it screaming back to hell. Instead she saw only inky blackness. Still, visions of the demon scratched at her brain: an ugly, horrid, horned beast of a thing, similar to Moloch in size, ferociousness, and power. And it'd used that power to nearly choke Crane to death. Until, armed with the weapons Jenny had discovered would kill it, she'd stabbed it with a wooden shard made from a cross around the time of Christ and flung salt blessed by a priest on it. At which point the demon had screamed in agony, threw Crane with all of its might, and nearly imploded in a burst of brilliant light.   
  
She'd run to him then, her unmoving partner whose head had collided with an old brick wall delineating the property they fought on. Her heart in her throat but breathing his name all the same, she gently eased him onto his back, afraid the light had left his eyes. He blinked rapidly, stunned, and she started breathing again, tears stinging her eyes as she felt the rise and fall of his chest where her hand lay upon him. If she'd lost him...no, she couldn't think about that, needed to check his injuries and see for herself he was alright.  
  
She shook the minutes-old memory from her mind and focused on the road in front of her. "We're almost home," she stated unnecessarily, trying to ease any worry he felt, to calm herself.  
  
A few minutes later, she swung the car into the driveway and bolted out, meeting Ichabod near the front bumper and holding on to his arm as she assisted him inside. He appeared to have all his faculties, but the wobbling he'd done for the first minute after taking that hit to the head had her worried.   
  
"Sit here," she commanded, patting one of the stools at the breakfast bar on her way to the freezer.   
  
He complied without comment, head pounding too hard to calm her nerves—or his own—though he managed to keep a neutral look on his face. He'd seen the worry on her since she'd rolled him onto his back after that hell monster had thrown him, and it hadn't left her since. He could feel Abbie's concern, felt the tension in her the whole ride home, watched her fingers absently tap the steering wheel to some silent tune of agitation.  
  
He couldn't fault her: it'd been his fear for her safety that'd put him in the grips of that demon to begin with. The thought of her small body, fierce though it may be, in the hands of the horrid monster had compelled him to forfeit their plan and go rogue. He felt no regret though; a concussion was a small price to pay to protect her, to ensure her safety.  
  
Abbie grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and pressed it into his hand before heading down the hallway to grab the first aid kit. By the time she returned, Ichabod had removed his coat and thrown it over the back of the couch and now held the ice pack over the gauze.

She set the kit on the breakfast bar and held her hand out to him. "I'm gonna get you some water so you can take these," she explained as she dropped Tylenol into his open palm.  
  
"Thank you, Lieutenant," he intoned gratefully, if wearily.   
  
Abbie handed him a bottle of water from the fridge, then flung open the first aid kit and rifled through it until she found the needle and medical thread. She laid them out on a kitchen towel, along with gauze, cotton balls, bandages, antiseptic, and medical tape.  
  
"How you doing, Crane?" she asked him lightly after he'd swallowed the medicine, her voice betraying the fear she felt at how quiet he'd stayed since taking the hit to the head.  
  
He smiled reassuringly at her. "I'm still alive, which is a vast improvement over other battles I've experienced."  
  
She eyed him warily, her head tilted in consternation.  
  
"A tad woozy," he admitted sheepishly. "And my head is pounding."  
  
"The Tylenol will help with that, but let's take a look."   
  
He gently removed the ice pack and the gauze, and he breathed in deeply, steeling himself as Abbie stepped in close to him. Heat radiated from her—or was that him?—and he welcomed her proximity, the feel of her soft hands and gentle touch on his brow. He never took hits purposefully, but her ministrations almost made it worthwhile. Even now, with a harsh blow to the head, her fingertips pushing his hair away from his face sent shivers running through him.  
  
Abbie pushed her fear aside and inspected his head, the ache in her heart easing slightly now that she could doctor his wound in the safety of their home. The two-plus inch gash looked angry and deep but had nearly stopped bleeding.   
  
"It needs a few stitches," she mumbled, more to herself than to him, forcing herself to stay on task and her emotions down. "But...it should be fine." She could feel him watching her carefully, intensely, but she avoided his gaze, not wanting him to see how much their scuffle with the demon, how watching him go airborne only to land head-first into a wall, had shaken her. It was a wonder he hadn’t broken his neck.  
  
She got to work cleaning the wound, dabbing at it with an antiseptic-soaked cotton ball as gently as possible. She could see him holding his breath against the pain, though he only let a few, nearly imperceptible moans escape. Each one stabbed at her heart though, and she forced herself to concentrate harder on the wound and less on the man.   
  
Ichabod tried to keep his breathing steady as she stitched him up, and he made his mind focus on each inhale and exhale instead of the pain. Not to mention her hands on him, her body only inches from him, the tension emanating off of her. There'd be hell to pay later for his wayward actions in the woods tonight. He didn't relish the thought but couldn't help feeling grateful he was still around for Abbie to reprimand.  
  
And she would, he acknowledged to himself in adoration of her. She'd glare and scold and sound fierce and fiery, and he'd apologize—and mean it. He'd stood on the other side of a plan when someone had gone rogue and knew the righteous anger that accompanied that.—while admiring her spirit and strength and fortitude of character.  
  
Which she was currently exhibiting: keenly focused, strong as steel, gentle as silk. Right now he was the task at hand, and he felt most grateful, much preferring her doctoring over an emergency room technician’s. Her fingertips skimmed his brow line, feathered through his hair, and his eyes dropped closed for a moment at the sensation.  
  
Abbie tied off the stitches and covered the gash with gauze, taping it to his forehead. She eyed her handiwork, estimating he may have a faint scar but hoping this latest fight wouldn't mar him.   
  
"It's gonna be painful for a while, but I think it should heal nicely. Hopefully without a scar."  
  
He remained silent, unsure what to say, too many emotions roiling inside of him. The adrenaline of another fight, fear for her safety, then for his own, relief they’d survived, sheepishness at having made the fight more difficult for her, the pain flooding him, her agitation and solemnity, her proximity, her touch, everything about her filling his senses…he felt drained and emotionally raw, a bad combination to keep himself under control.   
  
"You okay?" she asked, her brow wrinkled with quiet concern.  
  
She stood next to him, in his space, closer than normal—not nearly close enough if he had his say. But he didn't, and now wasn't the time, no matter how much he desired her. He wanted to reach out and wipe the worry from her face, to assure her that everything would be fine, so long as she stayed right here with him, kept stroking his brow, playing with his hair, breathing against his skin.   
  
Instead, he gave her a reassuring half-smile. “Yes, thank you, Lieutenant.”  
  
Abbie eyed him curiously, wondering at the strange expression on his face, the far-off look in his eyes, but she let him have his secrets for the time being. They had enough to discuss after tonight's deviation from their plan, but it could wait until tomorrow. Right now he needed to rest, and though it wouldn't be his inclination, she meant to ensure he got it.  
  
She nodded once. "You need a little more ice and then some rest."  
  
He needed more than that, but he kept his thoughts and comments to himself. Grabbing the ice pack off the breakfast bar, he stood and instantly regretted it as a wave of dizziness came over him. He reached for the counter, dropping the ice as the world slowly set itself right.  
  
Abbie watched him wobble and instinctively reached to help steady him, one hand gripping his forearm, the other landing flat against his chest. "Woah," she said softly, staring up at him, trying to decipher from his expression whether he could stand on his own two feet or not. She attempted a small smile of encouragement, but she felt more distressed than reassuring at the moment.

She wasn’t ignorant of the dangers of head wounds and wondered if she should’ve taken him to the ER instead of handling it herself. He’d have resisted, but she could have persuaded him—and if not, she’d been driving; she could’ve _made_ him go.

The fear gripping her insides squeezed relentlessly. If she lost him, she couldn't be sure she'd continue this fight. Not after losing Corbin, her mother, Frank, and Joe to it. She couldn't add another casualty—couldn’t add _him_ —to the tragic roster of failures. And especially not without him knowing how she felt.  
  
 _And what do I feel?_ she wondered, eyes locked on the man standing before her, filling her vision. Was it simple affection that left her smiling at his quirks and historical rants and funny descriptions of modern day appliances? Was it attraction that made her stare a bit too long into those baby blues when he got revved up retelling colonial stories or caused her eyes to roam his fine features—long, lean, strong hands, hair you could run your fingers through, wide shoulders, toned arms that encircled her comfortingly—when he wasn't looking? Was it mere friendship that made her want to spend more hours than she rightly should learning more and more about him, about his previous life, his hopes for one beyond this infernal apocalypse, all the facets of him and his mind and his heart that they hadn't had time to explore yet?

No, it was something more, something she feared putting a name to. And right now she didn’t have to; she just needed to make sure he survived this latest wound.

She shook away her thoughts. "Take it slow," she advised as she pushed his hair back once more to check the bandage on his head.  
  
Ichabod had nearly collapsed, and yet all his senses remained attuned to Abbie standing mere inches from him, her hands upon him, the faint scent of her lotion teasing his nostrils. He'd caught her furtive glances, her emotions on edge, both of them coming down from the high of battle to the realization of the aftermath. But this felt different. Abbie's movements were taut and precise, more clinical than normal and cool in their familiarity.   
  
Until now. Now he felt her hands on him, her breath against his chest, her gaze burning his skin, the air between them charged, morphing into something altogether heavy and heated. She was a live wire, and he couldn't help but touch her. Her hand against his heartbeat and her fingers in his hair again sent his pulse racing, and his hand came to rest over hers where it lay against his chest.   
  
She avoided his eyes—had since they'd sent the demon back where it belonged, he calculated—as her gaze followed her hand, which trailed down a lock of his hair to his jaw. Her fingers caressed down the side of his beard until they dropped to his collarbone, sliding along it until they dipped into the hollow of his throat.   
  
He swallowed hard, her exploration sending both shivers and heat racing through him. Could she not see what she was doing to him? Did she not know the depth of his attraction to her, the swell of desire she elicited, his yearning to _be_ with her?  
  
Apparently not since her fingertips continued their study of him, teasingly snaking along his chest where his shirt lay open, the drawstrings having come undone sometime during the demon fight. Only when she reached the v-point of his shirt did she lay her palm flat against his breastbone and finally, _finally_ look at him.  
  
What he saw in her eyes sent his head swimming: bright brown pools of desire and aching need coupled with fear. He felt dizzy again, and this time it had nothing to do with his head and everything to do with the woman before him invading his heart. Her touch sent his blood boiling, left his knees weak, and he slowly sat down again, putting them nearly at eye-level.   
  
Abbie didn't know what’d come over her, what made her cross the unwritten boundary line that'd always kept them professional and friendly, even if at times they became flirty or intensely heady. Didn't know what’d possessed her to trace that tempting patch of bare skin that taunted her every day, wondering what it'd feel like to touch him. She feared she’d made a mistake, and an icy-hot sensation flooded her. It wasn’t enough that she worried about his safety; now she worried she’d destroyed their partnership with her wayward hands and inappropriate thoughts, and she wilted inside.

She could handle rejection and embarrassment—though God knew the humiliation would sicken her—and courageously face any demon or monster to protect the world, but she couldn’t bear the idea of her actions changing their dynamic, the way they worked and communicated and played off of each other on a daily basis. She still wanted him around to cause her headaches and irritation and laughter and companionship...and now maybe more?  
  
His skin, warm to the touch, made her crave more, and she gazed up at him. Fire burned in his eyes, making her heart pound, and when he dropped to the bar stool again, she wanted nothing more than to move against him, press into him, feel the length of his body warm and hard against her.  
  
She saw his eyes drop to her mouth for a second, causing her stomach to dance somersaults, and she unconsciously licked her lips in anticipation.  
  
"Abbie," he whispered, his breath feathering against her lips, and she didn't know how he'd learned to speak a plea, a statement, and a question all at once.   
  
Her heart had jumped into her throat and, unable to respond, she merely nodded, her wide, trusting eyes never leaving his.   
  
One of his hands, warm and gentle, cupped her shoulder, drawing her closer as he leaned towards her, and when his lips touched hers, the earth fell out from beneath her.   
  
His lips moved softly, tentatively against hers, and she let the moment wash over her. The miles they'd traversed to make it here, the hurts and losses and aches and triumphs and long days and lonely nights and missed opportunities they'd endured to arrive at this moment, here, together, hearts yearning, blood pounding, lips speaking a new language as old as time itself. Too much—every nerve ending attuned to him, his hands sliding heat along her arms as he moved to embrace her, his lips firm but tender, his mustache deliciously abrasive, his body close—and entirely not enough at the same time.  
  
Ichabod floated through a dream, utterly awash with Abbie: her hands flat against his chest even as she pressed against him, her small frame held in his arms, her full lips, warm and inviting, pressed against his.   
  
And then she stepped between his legs, her hands sliding up and over his shoulders, fingers lacing into his hair as she snaked her arms around his neck. He felt aflame and started to pull back for air, then changed his mind, kissing her anew, this time more insistently as she moaned low in her throat.  
  
Abbie felt like she was simultaneously floating, falling, and flying, and she couldn't get enough. His lips molded to hers, hot and needy and insistent and more perfect than she’d ever imagined. His mustache scratched and tickled her, an entirely erotic sensation she could get used to. The mouth that infuriated and encouraged her, that spoke in eloquence and intellect, would now be her undoing.

“Lieutenant,” he rumbled her name against her lips.

It washed over her like a potent elixir, and she silenced him easily, kissing him harder, unable to mask her ardor any longer. He succumbed with a pleased sigh as her hands roamed over him every place she could reach, his nape and back, broad shoulders, the pulse point at his neck, his strong jawline. And then she started over again, running her hands through his hair, a fantasy she'd imagined thousands of times.  
  
But in her fantasies, she'd never hurt him doing so.  
  
He suddenly jerked away from her and gasped lightly, her hand having brushed over his wound in her fervor.  
  
Regret instantly took over her face. "Sorry, I'm so sorry," she gasped.

He shook his head slightly, brushing aside the pain and giving her a gentle smile before setting his hands on her hips and leaning his forehead against hers for a moment. When he pulled away, she cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs feathering over his lips, still mesmerized that he'd kissed her.  
  
His mouth quirked up beneath her ministrations. "You are most adept at this, Lieutenant," he admired, his Puritan sensibilities screaming against the passion racing through him now that her mouth wasn’t working magic on his. He kissed her thumbs where they lay against his lips.

“As are you,” she returned, feeling a slight flush on her cheeks. She ran her hands down his arms as she stepped back from him, only now realizing as his hands dropped from her waist how intimately she’d moved into him.

He clasped her hands before she trailed them away, holding her at arms’ length and staring openly at her, at her flushed cheeks and wide, bright eyes, luscious, just-kissed lips, the light purple shirt that lent her skin a rosy complexion, small waist perfect for his hands, jean-clad legs that teased him on a daily basis.

The attraction he felt for her actually made him hurt.

_Rein yourself in, scoundrel_ , he commanded himself. Swallowing hard, he met her eyes, which did nothing to help his cause as her heated, sultry gaze set him on fire anew.

“I…” He swallowed down the desire threatening to overwhelm him again. “I believe I could use that ice now.”

He realized the unintentional innuendo of his words as her face broke into a smile, and they both burst out laughing, releasing their clasped hands as Abbie handed him the ice pack.

“Come on,” Abbie motioned for him to follow her as she headed to the living room and sat on the couch. Ichabod held the ice pack against his wound and followed her, sitting near her but leaving a few much-needed inches between them since his heartrate still raced wildly.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, each lost in thoughts of what’d just passed, their evolving relationship, the delicious tension that still wound around and through them.

After a few moments, Abbie peered up at him. “You alright, Crane?” she asked, indicating his wound.

He nodded once. “I am quite more than ‘alright,’ Lieutenant. Abbie,” he corrected, his voice dropping low as he gazed at her appreciatively. “I have the best doctor in town.”

Was he flirting with her? She felt giddy at the prospect. “Don’t let it get out. I don’t do house calls.”

“I certainly hope not. You’d cause significantly more heart palpitations than you’d cure. Speaking from first-hand experience, as it were,” he teased.

She chuckled, kicking her feet up onto the couch, wrapping her hands around his bicep, and leaning into him. “I could get used to your flattery,” she admitted on a sigh.

“And I to your…ardent bedside manner.”

She turned her head and kissed his shoulder, tucking closer into his side. “Keep up the sweet talk, Crane, and there’ll be a whole lot more of it.”

“I can only pray this isn’t a wonderfully potent dream induced by my head injury.” He nuzzled the top of her head.

“Wonderful, potent, _and_ dreamy. And as real as the possibility that you may have a concussion,” she affirmed, turning serious for a moment.

“Mmm, it is concerning.”

“We should stay up for a while, make sure you’re still feeling well.”

“Hm.” He nodded in agreement, even though she wasn’t looking at him. “Whatever shall we do with our free time?” he queried coyly.

She smirked up at him. “You can start by telling me why you went rogue out there.”

The amusement dropped from his face, replaced by chagrin, and he relaxed back into the couch with Abbie’s weight pressed comfortingly into his side. _Better now than later_ , he mused. _The quicker we can return to making up_.

“Yes…,” he began. “About that…”


End file.
